


Rise and reprove the insolent daylight

by lbmisscharlie



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Clothing Porn, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Families of Choice, First Time, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-26 18:18:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3859885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lbmisscharlie/pseuds/lbmisscharlie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mac takes a breath; Phryne exhales. The trailing skirt of Phryne’s shining dress – starlight and sparkle – brushes the backs of Mac’s hands as she slides them up to Phryne’s knees. Her stockings are soft; her thighs fall open, softly, under Mac’s hands, which clench, just slightly, with the heat that sends to her gut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rise and reprove the insolent daylight

**Author's Note:**

> Set just at the end of series 1. Thanks a million to [peninsulam](http://archiveofourown.org/users/peninsulam) for ever-present cheerleading and wonderfully astute beta-ing.

Jane has fallen asleep on the window seat, blanket tucked over her shoulders. Next to the fireplace, Bert and Cec have collapsed on the floor, empty bottle of wine rolling gently on the hardwood next to them. Dot and Hugh slipped off an hour ago; if Mac didn’t know them so well, she’d suspect they were canoodling somewhere. More likely a chaste kiss at the front door, Hugh at home and Dot upstairs dreaming.

Jack left not long ago, after a murmured conversation with Phryne and a long look back before he stepped through the door. He’d looked tired, a tightness around the eyes that Mac suspects will linger. Murdoch Foyle might be now, finally, dead, but he’ll not be forgotten so easily. 

Ducking his head to put on his hat, Jack had nodded at Mac. Passing off the charge. 

Mr Butler has long since collected the glasses, all but the long-empty old fashioned in Mac’s hand and the half-full coup in Phryne’s. Still, Phryne dances. Her steps drag a little, not quite following the tune on the Victrola. The absurd, fluffy ends of her wrap sway gently around her calves, and the beads of her dress glint in the low light like a sweep of starlight. The languid, half-closed tilt of her eyes, her lazy grip on the champagne coup, the soft swing of her gown would suggest the pleasant influence of alcohol, but Mac can see how pale her cheeks are beneath the rouge, the way her fringe sticks sweatily to her forehead, the slight tremor that leaves the bubbly in her glass sloshing perilously toward the edge.

Mac sets her empty glass to the side table and stands. “Time to retire?” Phryne’s gaze on her is soft, unfocused for a moment, before it clears. She gives a weak smile.

“Perhaps. There’s beds enough if you’d like to stay.” Mac smiles, takes Phryne’s elbow. She’d have stayed anyway, sleeping on the floor outside Phryne’s chambers if she needed to. She can’t stand the idea of leaving her alone, not after she’s been so far away, so oblivious, while Phryne’s life was in danger. 

Phryne doesn’t lean on her as they make their way up the stairs, but does stay tucked close. Following her into her chamber, Mac closes the door behind them. Her hand lingers on the doorknob, cool under her palm, as Phryne steps forward, dropping her wrap on the floor.

Phryne sits at the edge of her bed, palms on her knees. The strap of her dress slips; in the low light the line of her collarbone stands out sharply. Mac steps forward, moves to bring the strap back into place. Instead her hand lingers in the air above Phryne’s shoulder.

“You don’t have to stay,” Phryne says, looking up at Mac through her lashes. Her makeup has flaked off, leaving dark smudges under her eyes, and for a moment Mac is sent back to the war, to long hours, blood, dirt, and bruises. She swipes her thumb under Phryne’s eye, wiping it away.

Phryne tilts her cheek into Mac’s hand, eyes lowering. “I’m a doctor,” Mac says. “I wouldn’t leave a patient in distress.”

“Is that what I am?” Phryne looks up at Mac, pressing her lips to the meat of Mac’s palm. 

“In distress?” Mac presses her fingertips to Phryne’s jaw.

“A patient.” Sometimes she looks just the same as she ever did, despite the sleek-pressed hair and the newly-etched fine lines at the corners of her eyes: coyness not quite covering vulnerability. 

“Of course not.” Mac takes one step closer. The floorboard creaks under her foot. “Under my care, regardless.” Phryne lifts one hand, plays with the tip of Mac’s waistcoat. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” Mac says, all in a rush, before Phryne can say something in that suggestive little cant she has and Mac loses her head. “I’m sorry I wasn’t – I would have killed him.”

Phryne tilts her chin up; Mac misses the warmth against her palm. “What happened to do no harm, doctor?” Before Mac can say _you bloody well know what happens to it,_ Phryne adds, “You’re here now. As am I.” Her voice is very serious, no hint of the exhaustion she must feel or the wine she consumed. 

“Yes,” Mac says. “Thank god.” She drops her hand to Phryne’s shoulder, feeling suddenly very matronly. 

“I’m fine, Mac,” Phryne says, and Mac knows she must look worried, to warrant not one but two reassurances. “Just tired.” Mac squeezes her shoulder, lets her thumb rub over the pale skin at her collarbone. Phryne leans into the touch. 

Mac waits. It’s familiar, this knowing: that whatever Phryne says next, she’ll follow. She won’t ask for help, but she might – well, she might let Mac help anyway. 

“It’s late,” Phryne says, and Mac nods. “You might as well stay,” she offers once more. She doesn’t say where. Mac nods, lifts her hand away, and drops to one knee. Lifting Phryne’s ankle, she rests the toe of Phryne’s shoe onto her thigh and unbuckles the strap, slipping it off. The other, next; her thumb lingers against the round bone of Phryne’s ankle. 

Mac takes a breath; Phryne exhales. The trailing skirt of Phryne’s shining dress – starlight and sparkle – brushes the backs of Mac’s hands as she slides them up to Phryne’s knees. Her stockings are soft; her thighs fall open, softly, under Mac’s hands, which clench, just slightly, with the heat that sends to her gut. 

She pushes Phryne’s dress up – up up – over the top of her stockings and to the crease of her hips. She stands; Phryne lifts her hips; Mac tugs the dress up and over Phryne’s head. It’s heavier than she expected, the weight of its slinking beads less like water than flowing metal in her hands. She’s loath to step away, but the dress deserves better than being tossed on the floor, and she’s not one to run afoul of Dot’s admirable housekeeping. It pools on the upholstered chair, a puddle of glimmering beads. 

When she turns back, Phryne still sits at the edge of the bed. Her hands grip the corner of the mattress, but she smiles up at Mac, knowing though tired. She doesn’t say anything; Mac isn’t sure if she wants her to. 

As Mac steps closer, though, Phryne reaches and takes her hand, drawing her nearer to the bed. Her fingertips are a touch too cool, but no fire has been laid in her room and the air is cold, too, and Phryne sits on the end of the bed in only her stockings, knickers, and brassiere. Silk, of course, in a pale dove grey which makes her skin glow like moonlight. 

(“I like being caressed all day long,” she said to Mac once, and laughed at how Mac pinked to think of Phryne’s soft little nipples rubbing against silk.)

Mac’s feet are between Phryne’s, her knees against the mattress, her hand still caught up in Phryne’s. Cupping her jaw, she tilts Phryne’s chin up; her hair brushes Mac’s knuckles, her mouth drops open in a soft sigh. She pushes her thumb against Phryne’s lower lip, needing to feel the soft, vulnerable inside of her mouth. Phryne’s mouth drops open; Mac’s thumb is wet with her saliva; the edge of her teeth is narrow and sharp. She pulls her hands away.

“Is this what you want?” Despite their many intimacies, she hasn’t ever before, not in the bombs or after the gunfire, not after any number of cases, or adventures, or long, late, whiskey-soaked nights. 

“I trust you,” Phryne says. They don’t touch. “I need to trust someone right now.” 

“Okay,” Mac says. “Okay.” She drops her head – the angle awkward – and brings their mouths together. 

Under her lipstick, Phryne’s lips are dry, and more yielding than Mac might have expected, had she considered this. In a meandering daydream, a wayward thought, a drunken reverie. Phryne’s neck tilts back as she responds to Mac’s pressing, opening her lips to Mac’s tongue. Under Mac’s hand, Phryne’s shoulder is sharp; it flexes as Mac traces down the edge of her scapula.

Her brassiere comes unhooked easily, slipping down her shoulders and away in Mac’s hand. She cups one palm under Phryne’s breast, the underside damp with cool sweat and nipple hard against Mac’s hand. Phryne exhales into her mouth as Mac presses harder, feeling the weight of Phryne’s small, soft breast give.

Phryne plays with the hem of Mac’s waistcoat. “Are you going to seduce me fully dressed?” she asks, tilting her head back enough to speak. Mac rubs her thumb over Phryne’s nipple, enjoying the way her lips fall open. 

Mac raises one eyebrow. “Wouldn’t be the first time,” she says, just to hear Phryne’s delighted laugh. 

“Mac, really,” she says, and arches against Mac’s hand. “Should I be scandalised?”

Mac steps closer; her knees knock against the mattress between Phryne’s spread legs. “Are you ever?” she says, and Phryne’s eyebrows arch. 

“Still,” she says, and half rises. Grasping Mac’s lapels, she pushes the jacket off her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. Letting Phryne undo her buttons, Mac waits. Standing, Phryne is half a head taller even in stocking feet, and she keeps her gaze on Mac’s as she slides the waistcoat off and teases the tails of her shirt from her trousers. 

She makes quick work of the pearl buttons on Mac’s shirt, slipping them deftly. “You’re quite a decadent, Dr MacMillan,” Phryne says, her hands lingering on the fine cotton poplin as she works it off her shoulders. 

“We all have our pleasures,” Mac says. Her voice feels heavy in her throat. 

“Indeed,” Phryne says, hands playing with Mac’s loosened ascot. “Leave it on,” she says, dropping her hands to Mac’s now-bare waist, and Mac laughs. 

“And my trousers?” she says, lifting one eyebrow. 

“Off, certainly,” Phryne says, hands going to the button. They drop, and Mac heels off her brogues and kicks the lot away, standing in the low light in her sturdy knickers and sturdy brassiere, in her socks and garters and ascot tied loosely. Phryne smiles, and kisses her again, and runs one fingertip down Mac’s sternum, over her stomach, to pluck at the waistband of her knickers. 

“Still more?” Mac says, teasingly. “You’re awfully needy,” she says as she pulls off her brassiere and kneels to peel off her socks. Phryne helps her off with her knickers and Mac fumbles at Phryne’s garter straps and pushes her stockings down, letting her knuckles skim against Phryne’s skin. Phryne watches as she tugs at the waistband of her fine knickers, slipping them off her hips, over her arse. 

“You are lovely, my dear,” Mac says, like she has dozens of times before. Never quite to Phryne’s pale skin, to her small breasts and rosy nipples, to the dark curls between her legs, unruly where every other bit of her is sleek and glossed. Phryne hums, shoulders lifting in no false modesty. She grasps the loose end of Mac’s ascot and tugs her close.

“Happy birthday to me,” Phryne says, against Mac’s mouth, and Mac tsks. All warmth and pleasure, her voice holds little fatigue or worry; Mac hopes it tells it true, that for this little, stretched-tight moment, she has helped Phryne set aside her griefs, those taints on her midsummer’s night.

“Incorrigible.” Phryne’s breath puffs against Mac’s upper lip. One hand to the curving hollow of Phryne’s hip, Mac pushes them both against the bed, falling together, legs tangled up and Mac’s elbow next to Phryne’s ear. Perhaps not her most impressive technique, but with a shift her thigh is between Phryne’s and Phryne gives a pleased little gasp against her mouth. 

She’s not wet yet, not really, but her flesh is warm against Mac’s skin, and she arches her back so that her breasts brush against Mac’s nipples while Mac rocks her thigh up against her. 

Phryne’s hand slides between them and oh – Mac is too soaking, she shouldn’t be: shouldn’t be gasping into Phryne’s mouth like this, shouldn’t be already slick and hard and trembling at the press of Phryne’s fingers against her clit. It’s not a night that she should be thinking this, and yet.

And yet Phryne’s eyes are open wide and guileless, her makeup smudged and her hair sweaty, and she’s alive – alive, so, and there, under Mac’s hands, under Mac’s body, like Mac had never let herself think. 

It takes but a few quick, sure rubs before Mac cries out, hoarsely, all sound stuck somewhere behind her larynx and too much to bring forth, and her hips jolt forward against Phryne’s hand. 

“Oh. Oh, Mac,” Phryne says, her hand stroking down the small of her back. She waits until Mac’s body slows and her breath picks back up before pulling her hand up and bringing it to her mouth. She’s barely licked her fingers before Mac falls on her mouth, kissing her fiercely until she can feel Phryne’s teeth through her lips and the wet little gasp she gives as Mac shoves her thigh forward again, rocking hard against Phryne’s cunt. 

She feels it now, Phryne’s slickness, and drives their bodies together. With one hand, Phryne grips her thigh, hard, nails digging and palm sweat-slick against Mac’s skin, and twists the other into Mac’s now-dishevelled ascot, holding their mouths tight together. 

When it starts, Phryne’s thigh lifts and bumps against Mac’s hip as she digs her heel into Mac’s arse. Breathing hard against her mouth, Phryne pants, ruts her hips and pulls Mac so close she can barely draw air, and doesn’t much want to, anyway. All her want centres on the hot, wet slick against her thigh, on the trembling of Phryne’s legs. 

She gasps, drops her head back; Mac drives her thigh up and holds it; under her body, Phryne’s stomach clenches hard as she rolls her hips up in tiny, tight thrusts before falling backward, limp.

Her hand doesn’t loosen from the ascot. Mac drops her forehead to the narrow space at the crook of Phryne’s neck and breathes the salt of her sweat. 

Phryne hums against Mac’s skin, in the space behind her ear. Familiar, it is, the soft, low sounds of Phryne’s satisfaction, but never quite like this. She kisses her neck, her jaw, her cheek, her forehead. Phryne blinks; the grey of her irises is merely a narrow band around each wide, dark pupil. 

“Quite restorative, Doctor MacMillan.” Her lipstick is all but rubbed off and a light sheen of sweat marks her upper lip. She tucks a stray hair behind Mac’s ear. 

“I only give the best of care,” Mac says, letting her mouth tip up at the corner. She doesn’t ask if Phryne is tired; of course she is, and of course she won’t sleep. Phryne smiles back, exhales through her nose, and gives a gentle cat-stretch upward.

“The best,” she agrees. 

Mac eases down on one hip, lying next to Phryne. Her fingertips idly play across the pale skin of Phryne’s abdomen, the mere, soft rise giving way to the precise curves of her hipbones. There’s a dull throb of desire in her cunt, a sharper awareness of the way Phryne’s arm brushes against her nipple with each breath, but for the moment the way Phryne’s chest rises and falls, the soft flicker of her eyelashes, the delicate curve of her ear just revealed by the pushed-back fall of her hair is enough for Mac’s pleasure.

“I –” Phryne begins, and then stops. She turns her head, catching Mac’s voracious gaze out. Biting her bottom lip, she says, “You are quite marvellous, my dear.” Mac feels a strange, unexpected flush creep up her chest; she covers by kissing Phryne’s forehead, a benediction.

Phryne’s hand teases idly at her thigh. “You know I’d –” Mac stops, exhales; Phryne’s hand stills. “I’m at your service,” Mac says, finally. “As long as you need me.”

Exhaling, Phryne holds her lips to Mac’s jawline for a long moment. “I cherish it.” Her body softens against Mac’s, her breathing gentles, and Mac thinks they might, indeed, sleep. 

But their dozing is not long-lived: Phryne’s hand begins once more to trace up Mac’s thigh and her hips to wriggle as though stillness does not satisfy. She rolls onto one hip, pressing her body into Mac’s, and Mac grasps the top of her thigh and rolls them both so Phryne’s legs entangle hers, her weight pressing Mac into the bed. Phryne grins, and kisses Mac hard, and pushes herself up with her hands against the bed.

Straddling her thigh, Phryne shoves Mac’s hand between her legs. She’s soaking, slick against her palm, and Mac slides two, then three fingers in easily. Phryne smiles, bites her lip; her hips rock, rutting against Mac’s hand, against Mac’s thigh. She fucks up against her, glorious, hair stuck to her temples and her cheeks and rising flush up her chest; beautiful. 

“Marvellous,” Mac murmurs, and slaps Phryne’s thigh. Phryne’s mouth falls open; her hips jerk; Mac slaps her again and she gasps. She’s flooding Mac’s hand, and the rocking thrusts of her hips leave her sticky and slick up her forearm, across her thigh. Under Mac’s hand, Phryne’s ribcage is damp, warm.

Mac grinds her palm against Phryne’s breast; Phryne leans into her. “Come on, darling,” Mac coaxes, and Phryne exhales and rocks her hips harder. She pushes Mac’s hand away, clutching her own breast hard, and Mac takes the suggestion and slaps the full, fleshy rise of Phryne’s arse. 

Phryne rocks, and gasps, and each little sound comes after the wet, sharp smack of Mac’s stinging hand. She leans in, grinding down on Mac’s hand, and grabs the ascot still hanging limply around Mac’s neck, and tugs. Mac arches up, meets her mouth, and Phryne gasps and goes shuddering, shaking tense. 

She falls to one side, thigh still spread over Mac’s hips, and buries her face against Mac’s shoulder. Mac pets at her, the angle awkward, with her soaking, slick hand. Phryne hums, satisfied, and Mac’s body responds. She thinks of taking Phryne’s mouth between her legs, or doing well enough with her own hand, but Phryne curls up close to her, and her body is warm, and soft, and perhaps finally succumbing to the trials of the past few days. 

With one foot, she pulls the coverlet up toward them, tugging it to cover them both. Phryne hums and throws one arm over her waist, and Mac closes her eyes. 

++

Mac’s eyes flicker open at the creak of the door. A crack of sunlight falls across the bed; Phryne’s arm is heavy on her waist, and her nose huffs softly against the back of Mac’s neck. Dot pushes the door open with her backside, turning as she enters with a tea tray. Settling it on Phryne’s vanity table, she pours a cup of tea and lifts it, bringing it over to the bed.

“Oh!” The cup clatters against the saucer. Behind Mac, Phryne stirs, then settles. Mac twists enough to prop herself up on one elbow, thankful she’d thought to button her shirt back on sometime in the small hours. “I’m sorry, Miss – Doctor,” Dot says in a whisper. A heavy flush spreads across her cheeks. 

“It’s fine, Dot,” Mac says softly. “She needs her sleep.”

Dot nods, too quickly. The cup trembles in her hand. “I didn’t –” She inhales, steadies herself. “I’ll bring another cup,” she whispers, finally, setting the saucer down on Phryne’s night table. Mac nods, and, biting her lip, Dot turns to leave, closing the door softly behind her.

Phryne sighs against Mac’s neck, and Mac pulls Phryne’s hand tighter against her and settles back against the pillows once more. The sun falls against her cheek. The day is ahead.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Edna St. Vincent Millay, because it has to be, right? Early 20th century queer seductrixes with fabulous taste in fashion need to stick together.
> 
> When we are old and these rejoicing veins  
> Are frosty channels to a muted stream,  
> And out of all our burning there remains  
> No feeblest spark to fire us, even in a dream,  
> This be our solace: that is was not said  
> When we were young and warm and in our prime,  
> Upon our couch we lay as lie the dead,  
> Sleeping away the unreturning time.  
> O sweet, O heavy-lidded, O my love,  
> When morning strikes her spear upon the land,  
> And we must **rise and arm us and reprove**  
>  **The insolent daylight** with a steady hand,  
>  Be not discountenanced if the knowing know  
> We rose from rapture but an hour ago.


End file.
